


Minor Surgery

by GeekishChic



Series: Cut Me Open And Reveal My Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Drunken Writing, Hardly Remember Writing It, M/M, On The Author's Part, Pre-Slash, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the appendix  is away, the Captain will play</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minor Surgery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [distantstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/gifts), [Ravenwolf36](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenwolf36/gifts).



> Based on this prompt: http://taikova.tumblr.com/post/82291404265/cleveristhenewsexy-john-coming-off-of  
> as well as the insanity of my girls

 

As much as John tried to battle the old "doctors make the worst patients" stereotype, he sure took his sweet time getting to hospital with the acute appendicitis disguised as a stomach bug. The bullheaded soldier insisted he was "fine" all the way through the automatic doors of the A&E, never mind that Sherlock and Lestrade had to half-carry him. John had insisted he was feeling better and a turn in the cool night air would be just what the doctor ordered. Sherlock did the impossible and insisted on a second opinion for John's diagnosis right when the latter collapsed at the crime scene, nearly compromising evidence. That was the reason for Sherlock's panicked tones. The evidence. That's what he'd say about the strange, high-pitched breaks in his otherwise throaty voice if asked. He was thankfully never asked.

 

For two whole hours, he paced the waiting area, absolutely  _not_  pouting with worry. He wasn't worried. It was a perfectly common medical procedure. He snarled at the doctor who told him John's appendix had ruptured and he was being prepped for surgery. Why wasn't he already  _in_  surgery? It didn't take that long. Who was the surgeon? Lestrade apologised for him as he was being yanked away and told for the tenth time to shut up. He'd had his phone unfairly confiscated because he was researching the procedure extensively, but not before relentlessly texting his older brother about immediately acquiring a full history on the doctor, surgeon, and hospital. Mycroft! Ordering his boyfriend around, telling him to take from Sherlock, the only source of proper information he had. He told Lestrade so.

 

"How did you know...You know what? Never mind. Just calm down. He's a tough one. He'll be alright." Sherlock could only stop a passing nurse and request to be admitted because of his own impending illness at the idea of Gabriel and his  _brother_... it was too horrible to contemplate. He had to stay hale and hearty for John.

 

Lestrade only departed when he saw John sleeping off the anesthesia, hospital sheets seemingly made from burlap pulled up to his chin to ward off the incessant chill that seemed standard in these godforsaken places. He'd missed his last appointment at the barber, an old Army mate of his that knew just how to achieve that military precision he craved, because of his illness. It caused the ashen blonde to shag slightly and Sherlock found he preferred the increased length. He folded his arms on the bed by John's left hip and rested his chin on them in an attempt to visualize what he'd look like with even longer hair. The result, because of his intensely vivid imagination was uncomfortable as he had to remain in that position for camouflage purposes. Just as he was going, Lestrade attempted to return Sherlock's phone, only to find that Sherlock had already gotten it back off him. He did however insist on his cuffs and ID back as well. Tedious. No matter, he already had several of each back at the flat. He glared at the Detective inspector on his way out anyway as he had a reputation to uphold.

 

He immediately regretted it, however when he heard a groggy "Wow" whispered off to his right. He didn't see the initial crack of those dark ocean eyes as he meant to because he was too busy being... well...  _him_. He really needed to get a grip on that in these sorts of situations.

 

"John!" 

 

"It speaks," he slurred, but only slightly, as if he'd had just the one too many pints instead of several. It was a bit too endearing for Sherlock's taste. "The vision knows my name." Sherlock blinked as he attempted to process any number of several possible scenarios.

 

"Of course I know your name. You've just-"

 

"What? Gone to Allah?" The question held a slight giggle. Alright. He must think he's still in the Middle East. The doctor said the medication might make him more prone to-

 

Sherlock's mind stalled for a moment when John, with a little whimper of pain, pressed the button to raise his top half, the sheet tumbling haphazardly to his waist. John had seen him Shirtless many times, but Sherlock had very little idea of the absolute glory beneath the incessant jumpers and cardigans. Anything he'd deduced had been from the few times he wore a thinner shirt or the rare occasions he only wore a button up. Sherlock made a mental note to acquire several copies of the sky blue one. And the black one with the pearl buttons. And the distressed red that only John seemed to make work without looking like some sort of... well it didn't matter. What  _did_  matter was the acres of skin that was positively  _golden_  compared to his own pallid dermis, the lightest smattering of honey coloured hair on a chest defined by whatever exercise regimen he'd thrown himself into whilst Sherlock had been "Dead" and John finally found the will to live again somehow. The pinkish sunburst of a scar on his left shoulder was of the utmost importance, ridges and valleys begging to be explored. Sherlock pulled his hand back into his lap before it was noticed. 

 

"That smarts," John winced moving the thin cover further down to get a look at his bandage. His words were much more clear yet he still seemed to be under the influence, gazing steadily at Sherlock as if there was no one else on Earth, let alone in this room. His eyes were burning sapphires, tearing at Sherlock's skin to get to the meat of his soul and finding it delicious as it was consumed.

 

"J-John, I-" Sherlock cleared his throat and tried again. "I think you're... I-I believe you... you-you're still... feeling the effects of the the the medication and-"

 

"You've got an eyelash on your cheek there, love." John was definitely clear if not coherent, because he reached out with his left hand, ever so gently swiped a burning path over Sherlock's right cheekbone with his middle and index fingers and brought them close to his lips. "Your turn to make a wish. Mine's pretty much sorted."

 

"Wh-what are you..." What was  _wrong_  with him? It was as if there was a short in his temporal lobe because there was no semblance of coherency in his words. It was worse than his surprise at The Woman's cleverness and... nudity. God now he was wondering whether or not John was naked under there. Most likely, given the position of the scar and that made Sherlock's face hot.

 

"Maybe you should wish to be able to tell me what you're doing later this evening," John pushed on. Maybe he should. Maybe he did.

 

"L-looking after you?" he blurted. It seemed exactly the wrong thing to say until John presented him with the gift of a smile that was at once sweet and predatory before pursing those... lovely lips and lightly blowing the alleged eyelash away. 

 

"Perfect," John said, cocking an eyebrow with a heartbreaking smirk. Despite it being anatomically impossible, Sherlock was pretty certain steam was coming from his ears. Well if there was a way to increase the temperature inside the skull without letting it destroy the-  _what the hell was he doing? What the hell was happening?_  "Speaking of perfect, whatever you're doing to your skin there, keep on with it. It's flawless." Sherlock forced himself to look around the room so as not to have to confront those blistering eyes.

 

"I... don't...  _do_... anything." Much slower but no stammering. Sherlock counted it as progress.

 

"Well then. Keep doing nothing." John definitely didn't know who he was, as Sherlock Holmes was the last person in the world one would tell to do nothing. Especially John. Oh and if he could stop licking his lips like that it'd be marvelous. It was a habit of his, yes, but this John Watson made it more sensual than it had any right to be.

 

"John I-"

 

"What's your name? I'm sure you've got a name fit for that face."  What the Hell. It couldn't get any  _worse_. Could it?

 

"Sh-Sherlock." Damn. The stammering was back.

 

"Sherlock." John had never said his name that way before, like it was his favourite toffee slowly melting on his tongue. "Something about shorn hair. However, it'd be a crime for you to do anything to those gorgeous curls."

 

"Y-you..." Perhaps if he slowed down again the stammering would retreat. "You... think... my hair... is gorgeous?" Ha! There!

 

"Whoever doesn't is a bloody fool. All that silken black until the sun from that window hits it and sets it on fire. It suits you." John was practically purring making Sherlock nearly choke on air. "Goes well with that face and that voice... I tell you I never much paid attention to my name. John Watson is so common. But  _you_... You say it as if it's as unique as yours."

 

"I..." No matter how hard he tried, coherency remained just out of reach. This right here was part of what no one seemed to see at first glance, part of what Sherlock saw immediately but couldn't name before. He could now. 

  
_This_  was Captain John H. "Three Continents" Watson MD at his service.

 

"John-"

 

"Yes?" But he couldn't say more than that and he nearly tore at his hair in frustration. But he didn't dare. Not in front of this John. Sensing no other words forthcoming, he suddenly said, " _Nami danam chi manzil bood shab jaay ki man boodam; Baharsu raqs-e bismil bood shab jaay ki man boodam. Pari paikar nigaar-e sarw qadde laala rukhsare; Sarapa aafat-e dil bood shab jaay ki man boodam. Khuda khud meer-e majlis bood andar laamakan Khusrau; Muhammad shamm-e mehfil bood shab jay ki man boodam_."

 

"And just what does that mean?" Good. That was straight forward with no stammering. Sherlock planned to delete the little crack toward the end, though.

 

"It's a poem by this Persian bloke called Amir Khusro. It roughly means: I wonder what was the place where I was last night, All around me were half-slaughtered victims of love, tossing about in agony. There was a nymph-like beloved with cypress-like form and tulip-like face, Ruthlessly playing havoc with the hearts of the lovers. God himself was the master of ceremonies in that heavenly court, oh Khusrau, where the face of the Prophet too was shedding light like a candle." Yep. John was trying to murder him. "It seemed to fit." Another smoldering look. Murder him and make him like it. "You know, I can't remember when I've had a better time in hospital. You've been looking after me so well already with your... stimulating conversation." John raked those remarkable eyes down Sherlock's torso and back up to his face, Sherlock feeling the psychosomatic heat of their path. "I'm sure you'll do a bang up job of my after care as well. Let me know if there's any way I can repay you." How did John's hand get on his without his notice? How was John just tracing little shapes and pressing lightly in some places making him suddenly, fully,  _painfully_  erect? "Maybe we could see how many different ways I can get that voice to say my name."

 

The surgeon and a nurse clambered in, to Sherlock's simultaneous instant fury and full-body relief. John just casually removed his hand, the very tips of his fingers still touching the side of Sherlock's pinky.  _How was that one tiny little thing driving him absolutely round the bend_? They were obviously there to check his stitches and give him another dose of pain medication which put him mercifully back to sleep before they were even finished. They'd learned long before not to address Sherlock directly unless something was amiss. Sherlock watched John watching him, as more and more time passed between closing and opening his eyes in a blink. Right before the final time, however, he most definitely deliberately winked at Sherlock who inwardly felt almost like some sort of adolescent pop group fan girl. It was ridiculous.

 

                                                                                        _______

 

Thankfully(?) the medication was different from the anesthesia because when John awoke, it was with no knowledge whatsoever of what had transpired three hours and one freezing shower ago. Except,

 

"I didn't try to chat up the nurse, did I?" Nope. "I'm told I... get a little... romantic when I'm loopy." A  _little_? Sure, if 'a little' meant the equivalent of a sex god.

 

"No," was all he could force himself to say at the moment.

 

"Okay good," he breathed out a sigh of relief, edged with the pain from his incision. Poor thing. Also that he thought those words in connection with John, and not for the first time, was a testament to the remaining dregs of his panicked state."Though, not that it didn't actually help. Apparently half the... fun... I had with those in that hospital was a result of this." He tossed his head a bit toward his bullet wound. Sherlock had to look anywhere but there. "Alright?"

 

"Yes," Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm, erm, fine."

 

"You look a bit pale. Well, paler than usual. I swear you must bathe in sun cream to keep it so-"

 

"I've brought you proper tea." Sherlock thrust the cup toward him. They'd invested in several stacks of paper takeaway cups with lids for when they jaunted from the flat in the middle of whatever. John's sound idea, especially when the weather was cold.

 

"Oh... Well... ta." He tipped it in a little toast, the rapturous face he made after the first sip causing Sherlock to have to look away again and take a drink of his own. "And do I smell a bacon butty?"

 

"You do," Sherlock replied, smiling in spite of his flustered condition and extracting the bag from beneath his chair to press into John's eager... capable hands.

 

"I could  _kiss_  you!" He moaned, tucking in without even looking at Sherlock. "I almost got a reprimand back in Afghanistan. You know how it is in that area of the world and one of those nurses I hit on was a bloke." 

 

Sherlock actually did choke this time.

 


End file.
